


The Story of Thursdays

by acupofmilktea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acupofmilktea/pseuds/acupofmilktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Chuck or God or someone tries to explain the way the universe works when it comes to destiny, dimensions, the fabric of the cosmos, Dean, and that one funny angel who has been with him in so many different ways across so many universes of possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reality's Arena

**Reality's Arena**

 

Humans like simplicity. Not so much in their choices of things like brand of yogurt or what slinky black dress actually constitutes a Little Black Dress, but simplicity when it comes to explaining the who, the what, the why. They like to think of time as a line, a linear pathway that keeps chugging along like the good ol' Chronos engine that could, putting their pasts behind them, their futures in front and bits and pieces of present leaking away like sand out a timer. 

But time is only one dimension (after all, time like beauty is in the eye of the beholder and a line at the grocery store is hardly the same as one at Disneyland). Edward Witten finally realizes in a moment of comprehension while sipping on his breakfast Earl Grey at the ripe age of 78 that he's gotten the Membrane Theory all wrong and while it would require 11 dimensions to allow for Einstein's theory of general relativity to match with the standard model of particle psychics, God did not exist in just the 11 but at 16. He got it mostly right, or as right as anyone human would in that millennium but before he had a chance to finish jotting down the note, he fell over with a heart attack. Further reason to believe that although God could have a sense of humor at times, Fate was a ruthless bitch. His housekeeper would find him and the note of "If I had known-" and no one would ever know what Witten would have regretted not knowing sooner. But that is in the future (or was it the past?) and not the point of this story. The point here is that angels, the soldiers, guardians, choirboys of heaven exists at the 10th dimension, unbound by time. (Most of them only appear to bother paying attention to the first 6, but really, after all those hundreds of thousands of years of watching planets and universes unfold, you'd get tired of examining everything to the 10th degree too.)

It is in one of those dualities (which is a questionable term considering there are hardly just two alternate universes but infinite in the broadest and most crude of terms but we shall stick to the confines of the human language here) that we first find the angel. 

It is of course not a real first since when you are not bound by time, how could you have a beginning point in an infinite ball of stringed loops without a break, but even God liked the neatness of the term when he created the world of man so we shall consider it...well, the first of many Thursdays in their story. 

 

Or perhaps more simply, just the story of 'Thursdays'.

\---

The first time he sees the shaggy black dog, he barely pays it any mind. Dean had more important things to pay attention to than some dumb mutt sitting by the alleyway to the street panting in the heat, scruffy fur matted from nights of sleeping in the street. He's busy miserable about how chaffing these stupid cheap sneakers are and wishing that he'd been able to speak up to his dad and ask for the nicer Nike ones that all the other kids at school were wearing. He knew he should be grateful that they at least could pass for moderately new this time, but sometimes he just wanted to have something nice. It was hard to be poor when you were a kid.

The dog's eyes followed him from the alleyway, watching him in a curious way as if it knew him. Dean ignored him and crossed the street to walk the opposite way home.

It wasn't until the fifth time Dean saw the dog that it attempted to approach him. It was always waiting by the alleyway near the back entrance of his school when Dean got out, a hopeful (can dogs look hopeful?) expression, tongue lolling and those clear blue eyes watching him. He remembered thinking what a weird color for such a black dog to have. Where the rest of the animal was filthy and dirty, the eyes were bright and caught the light no matter how dimly lit the alleyway was. 

Dean stood there and considered the dog for a minute. The canine did not attempt to come right up next to him but exited the alleyway until it was just four feet away and then just lay down, eyes never leaving Dean's. The expression was as close to adoration as an animal could show but Dean had never seen what adoration looked like so he just figured the dog was hungry and could smell the peanut butter and jelly sandwich half he'd saved to eat as dinner if his dad didn't get home in time from the bar (which was a common occurrence on all days that end in Y). 

He dug out the sandwich half and broke off a corner, thinking that he's probably going to get bitten and die a horrible death from whatever that disease was that people always said you got from wild animals that made you froth at the mouth. He held out a piece of squished bread, jam and peanut butter to the dog. It crawled forward and sniffed his hand before taking the bite and swallowing it, giving his fingers a parting lick for thanks. The dog's bright blue eyes never left his face.

Dean went hungry that night but he didn't care for once.

He couldn't say where the dog came from or where it went but it was always there in the same alley whenever Dean got out of school. Sometimes if Dean got out early or late (usually because of skipping class or detention for skipping class), he could catch the dog sitting there still, only the back and forth of its black head a sign that it was waiting. He knew his dad would blow a gasket if he tried to bring the dog home so all you could do was save him some lunch and once in a while a bit of jerky that he shoplifted from the corner gas station when he had to buy stuff for his dad. (Like beer. And more beer. And sometimes bacon.)

One day he found an old YMCA frisbee caught in some bushes outside of the tiny park between Broadway and Atlantic. The dog did not seem to understand the part of fetch where you actually /return/ the item to the thrower, but he had fun regardless, chasing the stupid mutt all around the grass. And when it was time to go home, he patted its furry head, received a love lick on the hand and tried not to turn around and watch the dog pad off back to the alley or wherever it went. The dog did not have a name because Dean was afraid that if he named it, he would become attached to it and who wanted to be attached to something as dumb as a stray dog that liked to sleep under the dumpster when it rained.

And it was raining that Thursday in May when the speeding car swerved in the street just across from the alley it always waited. Dean barely had time to register the shining circle headlights flashing through the sheets of rain when the nameless dog pushed Dean out of the way with such force that the boy scrapped his hands and knees against the blacktop, his jeans tearing. The car's tires screeched and there was a wet crunch before the black car sped off down the street, lost in a matter of seconds. 

The oily puddles in the dark street hid the blood and washed it from the dog's fur as the rain continued to pour down. Dean forgot about his backpack as he half crawled, half stumbled to the dog lying just next to the sidewalk in the gutter. The dog's one good blue eye watched him and as the boy cradled the dog's head in his lap, water soaking through his pants and sweater, his tongue came out and gave his hand a warm lick as if to say 'it's okay'. The dog's tail gave one solid thump in the rain puddle and then lay very still. 

 

Dean couldn't stop sobbing as he held the stupid dog tightly. Stupid, stupid dog. 

The dog's fur was being washed clean of blood and grim from the rainwater. For a moment, it was soft like feathers against his face and for some unfathomable reason this made him cry harder.

 

\---

The second Thursday he meets Castiel, it is only for a few seconds when their hands touch on the doorway to a small coffee shop called Second Heaven. There isn't a jolt of electricity or divine shower of sparkles or whatever cheesy effects movies tend to make men and women expect to happen when Jennifer Aniston meets 'the one'. But there is a pause for both of them, Castiel quickly snatching back her hand out of impoliteness, an apology spoken quickly under her breath as she moves to the side of the door to let Dean in. 

The stockier man gives the door a hard push so they can both exit and enter at the same time and then Castiel is gone, striding off with the tall brooding brunette at her side. And as he does, Dean can't help but blink and do a double take, turning his head to watch the receding figure of the girl with piercing blue eyes. He shakes off the feeling and turns back to head to the counter. If he had just waited another 0.43 of a second, he would have seen her turn back from the parking lot as well, a puzzled look like she should remember some little detail and was having a hard time figuring out what it was.

Then the black girl puts a hand on her wrist and she turns back and the touch is filed away under 'curious'.


	2. The Universe and the Bucket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is indeed a matter of great difficulty to discover, and effectually to distinguish, the true motions of particular bodies from the apparent; because the parts of that immovable space in which these motions are performed, do by no means come under the observations of our senses.
> 
> — Isaac Newton

The Universe and the Bucket

There have been many heavenly wars (more if you consider the ones that Didn't Happen in these dimensions and only in others). Some are fought on Earth, some of in other planes, some are decided before the armies of heaven and hell ever meet in light, heat and the maddening certainty of what Needs to be done (as opposed to the much more beneficial what Should be done, which is actually what God had intended all along but even angels seem to have forgotten many millennium ago around when babel fell. Perhaps when man and language was scattered, God did a bit too good of a job and scrambled the angels just a little too. It is a consideration).

It is during one of these wars, during a time period known as the Great Rising (though really they should have called it the Great Drowning considering they lost an entire kingdom under the depths of the ocean before they won and crushed the demon lords below their multidimensional celestial feet) Manakel would mourn for an eon at the loss of life in the sea and stand in watch unmoving except for the tears that flowed down her cheeks and creatures that once bore the colors of the jewels of the sky but now would be stripped away of that in the depths that hid away the lost kingdom.

It is here that Castiel and Balthazar meet. In one universe, it may be described as two funnels of spectral light that collide in a flash of stars exploding with the heat of a meteor's great blaze of glory in the atmosphere of the planet, the angels speaking in the tongue of fire and song. In another, Balthazar is idly inspecting a pile of pearls, each more lovely and perfect than the next as he smokes a cigarette at a table floating in midair just above the waves. Don't question the floating table. 

Castiel appears before him with a frown. 

"Balthazar...Are you ingesting toxic chemicals into your form by _smoking_?" The other angel glances up with a bored expression. If it were Zachariah, perhaps he would have cared enough to make the cigarette disappear but Castiel would never tattle on him. 

"Just an appearance, my dear brother, just an appearance. " He peered at a giant pink pearl nearly as big as a golf ball, sighed and flicked it into the ocean with a plop. The fish underneath the grey waves scattered at the disturbance. Castiel turned his gaze to the waters and the two angels did not speak for a decade (or two, it is hard to be certain of details like time to those that consider it a guideline). 

"Manakel weeps."

"Manakel has been sobbing for a long time, Castiel. Weeping is an understatement. She's the reason the ocean's so blessedly salty." Balthazar didn't even raise his head at this one, still intent on the shine of a black pearl.The other angel frowned at him with a faint disapproval.

"The ocean's saline levels are at their current because-" His brother sighed at him but refrained from rolling his eyes.

"It was a joke, Castiel."

"You should not mock our sister's sorrow."

"She's free to crack jokes at me if I cry for so long the fish have lost their color. " 

Castiel did not reply. After some months had passed, Balthazar tossed another pearl into the waters to scare the schools that had gathered and turned to the other, who was still observing the churning of the waves by the South Pacific winds that blew through. 

"Surely you did not bother coming here just to tell me to not have a sense of humor. What's troubling you?"

The other angel's eyes were...not troubled, but intensely absent as if they were focused on a problem that he could not name but could not admit did not exist either. It was all rather existentialistic. 

"I thought I dreamt...of Father." That made the older by a handful of clouds and two skips of the proverbial moon Balthazar stop what he was doing and look up.

"You've got to be joking."

"I am not good with joking, Balthazar. You have oft remarked on this."

Balthazar scratched his cheek with the hand not currently holding a pearl.

"You spoke with God?" Castiel shook his head.

"No...it was just a feeling. Like a memory but not my memory. And it was not Father, more like something that felt _of_ Father. It was all very strange."

"Well, I'll say. Have you told anyone? You know they like to hear these kinds of things, although it's always been Joshua who shows up with the announcements. You sure you didn't just have a bit too much of the celestial punch and forget to get off rainbow road?"

Castiel hesitated, which said a lot when it came to angels. Doubt, even self-doubt was not something that came with the basic celestial package.

"The memory was of myself saying something...to someone. But I can not see who it is I am speaking to." Balthazar waited and then gestured with his hands in mock frustration.

"Well? I don't have all millennium. What in Heaven did you say?"

Castiel gazed down into the ocean where Manakel wept her unending tears, refusing to be comforted. 

"I remember you."

 

\---

This time, it is a white Thursday, the white of snow which is like the white of death but without the crunchy bits.

Snow isn't really all that cold when it's falling. It's when it starts to melt that the cold really gets to you, whether against cheeks or the bits that sneak in underneath collars and scarves. The old man breathes hard as he climbs up the trail, the girl in pigtails running ahead and then waving at him to hurry, the sound of her laughter sweet against the crunch of snow under their feet. Snow continues to drift down, coating her lashes and his eyebrows and she giggles when he reaches down to brush her face off with a gloved hand.

"Look, I'm making a snow angel!" Ellen plopped herself into the bank and slid her legs and arms side to side. 

_Dude, it's just a name for it alright, I don't give a damn if it doesn't really look like a real angel. Just shut up and lie down already._

The old man smiled as the memory flitted by, a captured frame that too quickly slid out of his reach. Age had done what years of hunting couldn't and he knew he was falling apart. Too often now, his thoughts were like tossing a stack of photographs into the air, drifting here and there, through this and that. But he had Ellen to focus his attention on so it was a little easier as he trudged through the trail and sat down on a rock near where the girl now amused herself rolling an army of tiny snowmen complete with branches for arms.

_Look, I'm just saying your poetry books are getting out of control. I mean, they are literally falling out of my baby. Do you realize how excessive that seems? And why poems of all things!_

_Poetry is song with words, Dean, music without the tune. I like poetry._

Soon, he thought to himself. But not yet.

Ellen blew him a kiss from her snowmen. She was making one big snowman in the corner now and plunked her own scarf on it. When he asked her who that was, she rolled her eyes and gave him a 'look'.

"The angel to watch over the snowmen, duh!"

He wanted to tell her there were no more angels watching, that those doors had closed long ago, but he let her keep her innocence and her angel and watched her build fortresses to protect her many tiny snowmen.

The snow had mostly stopped, although the occasional wind still brought a little puff here and there. Once it brushed against his face, gentle and soft, like something out of the broken rolodex of his memory, a sweet memory. It was also very cold though as it kissed his cheeks and melted and that was also a familiar memory, one he did not want to be reminded of and one he thought of all too often.

_Frost?_

_The man understood human emotions and spoke simply. It is an art, even if he tends to stray into philosophical abstracts in his later years._

He was tired, so very tired though. 

_Promise me._

_Please don't make me do this, Cas._

Maybe he would just close his eyes.

_You have miles to go still, Dean. Miles before you can sleep._

_No... Please._

Just for a little bit.

_Cas..._

Just...a...

Little

 

\---

 

There are many Thursdays where the two of them sit on the hood of the black Impala, watching the sun rise, the rotating reference point of eyes observing the colors of twilight being eclipsed by the refraction of the sun's upper limbs through the Earth's atmosphere- an average of 34 arcminiutes as the fallen angel will tell the man who grunts, not even bothering to explain that he really doesn't care about the science mumbo jumbo. 

But he watches on these sunrises with him anyway, even if it means staying up or getting up because somehow it's different and important and he hated to admit it but almost _holy_ when it's with Cas. Sometimes Sam joins them, but the younger Winchester tends to enjoy his sleep a bit more than Dean and they give up on waking him more often than not. During these times, with the sun rising in a sudden glory of colors, the warmth of the reds bleeding into the very unrealistic pinks (of a sky that no painter would ever want to color because who is that cheesy to actually consider cotton candy a real shade of the sky but God?), as the world wakes in all of that disgustingly pastel technicolor, Castiel will close his eyes and raise his hands up to the sky, his head cocked ever so slightly as if he were tuning into a station.

"I wish you could hear, but the sound would make your eardrums both implode and explode at the same time," he had informed Dean with the most sincerely regretful face the first time. 

"Listen in to Good Morning, Heaven? I'm good, no worries there, Cas."

He doesn't bother telling him that he doesn't need to hear it with his ears. He can hear it through Cas' face, the glow that the sun lends the fallen angel, the way his hands reach out in supplication as if he could touch the heaven that he'd left behind if he just stretched out a little more. He could listen through the smile that would touch upon Castiel's lips as he grasped that last remnant of a world he no longer belonged to. He could hear it through the happy tears that would sometimes trickle down Cas' cheeks as he listened in silence to the voices of his brothers and sisters as they joined throughout the world in harmony to honor their Father and sing holy worship to his name. There was no war at that moment, no fighting, nothing but the glory of their Father for the thanks of all creation. 

It was these mornings that Dean thought maybe, just maybe he could hear angels sing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I probably should organize these a bit better, but...oh vell.
> 
> Crit is loved, thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> WIP - Chapter titles are from the theoretical physics book "Fabric of the Cosmos". Characters belong to CW/Supernatural. Typos and grammatical errors all belong to me. Crit is dearly appreciated. (Seriously, crit makes my world go 'round and will probably speed along the update process.)


End file.
